


Anchoring

by marginalia



Series: Dom/Oz [7]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, The Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Community: contrelamontre, M/M, dom/oz verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-08-09
Updated: 2003-08-09
Packaged: 2018-10-06 09:39:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10331759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marginalia/pseuds/marginalia
Summary: Contrelamontre poetry challenge. From:Such wilt thou be to me, who must, / Like th' other foot, obliquely run ; / Thy firmness makes my circle just, / And makes me end where I begun., but in all honesty from the whole final image in John Donne's "A Valediction Forbidding Mourning".





	

**Author's Note:**

> Contrelamontre poetry challenge. From: _Such wilt thou be to me, who must, / Like th' other foot, obliquely run ; / Thy firmness makes my circle just, / And makes me end where I begun._ , but in all honesty from the whole final image in John Donne's "A Valediction Forbidding Mourning".

Sometimes being strong is overrated. It is lonely. It is exhausting. it is not its own reward.

He was the center for Willow, holding fast while her mind and tongue and magic spun wider and more furiously through their world. He held tight when she roamed, a safe haven when she returned, locking his own spinning wildness inside. They called it the wolf, as if naming it would make it a separate being. The not Oz. Oz was Zen, Oz was centered, Oz was calm, cool, and collected all the time. Oz closed the wolf up tight, hid it from Willow, hid from himself until Veruca came, until Veruca freed him from his closed-off, bitten-back existence.

She freed his tongue, loosed his own spinning mind, and he fled from this new self to a land where no one understood the words tripping off his tongue. He ran and dreamt and prayed and learned to channel his twirling language into the notes flying from the strings of his newly out of hock bass. 

Oz poured self and soul into music, a monologue all heard but few understood. Pain and passion and loss and desire soared from tiny stages in smoky clubs, dimmed by the unrelenting crowd. Drifting until the night it shot out from the stage in a shimmering cord, twining around the boy with the endless grey eyes, radiating his own heat and loss.

Twisting around and capturing Dom, pulling him towards the inevitable collision of bodies, giving in to feral need.

And yet. When it was ended. When desire was satiated for the moment and the dry quip delivered Oz was startled to see the cord still humming around them, to look up into the stormtossed eyes and find a rock to which he could cling. "Come with me," he said, and in the days and weeks that followed stories spilled out while eyes were locked on the comforting ribbon of highway ahead. 

Stories and moments spinning and twirling outward in interlocking circles, for no one should have to be the strong one all of the time.


End file.
